Page 20 of Tapped

Not that my supervisor would be surprised. I’ve reported to Tim Coleman since I got out of the academy. Our days go back to the Big Apple when I was wet behind the ears and eager to make a name for myself.

Make a difference.

Now, work is a hobby I keep silently on the side. Tim plays golf. Brax obsesses over his family. Rocco is killing it at Miami PD and thinks he’s going to star in the nextBad Boyswhile chasing bikinis on South Beach.

I’ve tried to play golf but I hate collared shirts. Brax’s wife, Landyn, has made me an honorary uncle to their son, not to mention his Godfather. I’m a required guest at their table every Sunday for family dinner. And since I just turned thirty-two, I have no desire to create my own action-adventure movie. Besides, the bikinis on South Beach got old a month after I moved here.

Miami is one of the top three busiest divisions in the DEA. It’s a major port and has direct access to the Caribbean. The ocean is a big fucking place and not easy to police. Boats and planes sneak in and out of the country like rats that only come out at night to feed on trash and spread disease.

Fucking rats.

When I’m not chasing human rodents through wire taps or confidential informants, hunting ghosts is still my preferred pastime.

“The wire room is covered. Go home,” Brax demands.

“The last time I checked, you’re not my supervisor.” I look up at my friend who thinks he can boss me around. “What are you still doing here? You’re about to have a baby. I’m surprised you haven’t taken the whole month off.”

Brax slings a backpack over one shoulder. “I’m saving the time off for when my daughter makes her grand appearance, asshole. Landyn barely had time to get the salon up and running. Which reminds me, you could use a haircut. You should call her and get in before the baby comes.”

I look back at my computer screen. “Okay, Mr. GQ, who never has a hair out of place. I don’t want to think about the scenes that probably play out when she cuts your hair. If you want to double as a Latin runway model, be my guest. Perfection isn’t my thing.”

“Trust me, everyone knows that. I’m just saying, Landyn won’t forgive you if you go somewhere else, and don’t try to get her to cut it in our kitchen again. She’s got a whole salon now.”

I throw him a smile. “You’re just jealous your wife can’t help herself when it comes to my locks. She practically begs me to let her cut it.”

“Fuck you,” he deadpans. “You and your overgrown mop aren’t special. She hates dead ends.”

“Your wife might hate dead ends, but she doesn’t hate me anymore. She can give me a quick trim when Uncle Micah brings obnoxious gifts for Brian and the baby. You’ll spend every minute of the day thinking of me.”

“More like hating you,” he adds. “I’m not afraid of much, but you and Rocco are making it a competition for who can gift the most annoying toys. I thought we had each other’s backs.”

I shrug and swivel in my chair to face him. “I like your kid more than I like you.”

“Fair enough.” He turns to leave. “Seriously, go home, Micah—if you can remember how to get there. You saved the doctor and her son today. Her asshole husband is sitting in jail. You deserve a decent night’s sleep before the sun comes up and you feel the need to do it all over again.”

Brax knows me better than anyone. A decade of fighting demons while working alongside the same person has a way of bringing out the truth.

And regrets.

Those might be the worst.

Speaking of the doctor, Brax is right, but he’s also not. I’m not sure I saved anyone today, but the good doctor knows her husband paid a contract killer to get rid of his family.

That shit is fucked up.

I can’t stop thinking about Dr. Evita Litchfield. She said she’s good and can hire security. Hell, her murderous husband even admitted there was no way to penetrate their house—the security is that ironclad.

I hope he’s right.

I’ve spent most of today studying my list of targets for a lead on who Michaels hired. Hell, he said on the wiretap he didn’t know, and there’s no reason for him to lie.

Jeff Michaels might’ve blown my case up with the murder for hire, but it’s his wife I can’t stop thinking about. The woman took her son and ran out of here like she had a gun to her head.

Which, in a way, she does.

I look at the clock. Five ‘til twelve. Brax is right, I need to get out of here, and I really need some sleep.

By the time I pack up, get to my car, and head out of the parking garage, I pause.

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